Cut
by Bakura's Guardian Angel
Summary: Ryou doesn't understand the force that's slowly breaking apart his life. What he does understand is that he needs a way to handle it, a way to escape. He didn't think he'd find the solution through pain.


Rated T for some blood and for the Cutting theme.

Disclaimer: I don't own YGO, and I don't think cutting is a good way to solve your problems. It's BAD!

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"The worst pain a man can suffer: to have insight into much and power over nothing." ~Herodotus

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I'd heard about people who dig themselves into ruts. Officially it would be called Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, but even people who don't have a mental disorder find themselves stuck in the tracks of their life. They do the same things, at the same time, the same way. Day after day after day. Sometimes it's their entire lifestyle, everything they do… Sometimes it's just something small though. Something, like an anchor, that keeps your life solid. Unmoving. Unchanging. It keeps reality in focus.

I realize that I've built myself one of those ruts.

I came home quickly on the first day that my soon-to-be habit started. It was getting dark. I had stayed far too long at Yugi-kun's house after school. It had just been so easy to let the time slip away, hanging out with friends, joking and laughing. It was simple. Easy. But by the time I finally did leave it was dark, and I had to walk home alone. For no reason in particular I felt almost guilty about hanging out with Yugi. I felt like it was wrong. But I didn't really care, because it was dark and I had to walk a mile and a half to my house.

I had never been a fan of the dark, so I was jogging most of the way, and by the time I rushed through my door, slamming it hard behind me, I was out of breath. I stood there for a minute, taking deep breaths, letting my heart slow down. I quickly flipped all the lights on throughout my house, clicking on the switches one at a time.

The clock chimed, causing me to jump slightly. I hated living alone. It felt so empty, here, in a house left to me by my father. But I didn't really feel _alone_ per say, so I just ignored that hole inside me; the hole that used to be filled with the presence of my family. Trying to discard the dismal thoughts, I went into the kitchen, hoping that some food would calm me down.

As I began to pull out food from the cupboard, I thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye. I turned, but it was just a trick of the light. Nothing was standing in the corner of the kitchen. To distract myself, I started going over my day yesterday, trying to piece it together. I had passed out again, something that happened a lot. It was an unexplainable phenomenon. I didn't know why it happened, but it happened. A lot. I couldn't remember where I'd been or what had happened. It made my life unpredictable and unstable. Grimacing as the memories of the day before eluded me as always, I pulled out a long kitchen knife. Its mirrored edge caught the artificial light from my kitchen lamp, casting a reflection on the skin of my forearm as I set it against the counter to slice some vegetables.

A thought flitted through my mind, seemingly out of nowhere. What would the edge of that blade feel like across my skin? Images of sharp steel against flesh hid behind my eyes. My stomach clenched at the morbid thoughts, and I decided I wasn't hungry anymore. I slowly put all the food I'd taken the time to get out away.

But not the knife.

I placed it on the kitchen table and then grabbed my book and sat down. The rasp of paper over paper as I began to turn the pages of my book was a calming sound. I glanced over at the knife again. Would the pain from its bright edge clear the fog over my memories? Maybe a certain amount of stimulation was all I needed to lift the amnesia that was breaking my life into tiny pieces.

I slammed my book down in frustration with myself, with the gruesome thoughts that were plaguing me. I stood up and paced, back and forth over the tile. Every once in a while my eyes would slip back to the vegetable knife, sitting unused on the table, and my stomach would clench again in nervous anticipation.

I paused. Just a small cut couldn't do any damage, really. With slight hesitation, I moved over to the table and sat down in front of the knife. It seemed like it was looking up at me, taunting me, as though asking if I would be brave enough to use it.

Slowly my hand slipped over to the knife, but as soon as I touched it I snatched my hand back as though I'd just tried to pet a venomous snake. What was I thinking? Was I going _crazy_? This wasn't even like me. Self-mutilation had always been something that was a hazard to the mentally deranged and depressed. I was happy, though. I had friends, a life… A life cut into tiny pieces, separated by elongated lengths of time without memory. A half life lived under the influence of an unseen force. A life like a broken puzzle with missing pieces. I once again saw a flash of something just beyond the boundary of my vision, but I didn't bother turning to look. I knew it would just be gone in the milliseconds it took my eyes to see.

The knife glinted up at me. What if I did use it? Just once…just to see how much control I had. Just an experiment.

My hand reached out, gripping the handle tightly. I look at the knife clutched in my fingers, examining the hand and its contents like they don't belong to me. Like it's someone else's hand holding the knife.

I knew I wouldn't be able to do it slowly. I wouldn't be able to bring myself to make the first mark. So I made it fast, eyes closed. The knife's edge was icy cold on my skin. In one moment the whole world seemed to hold its breath, then a bright electric pain etched itself into my arm. The edges of my vision tunneled momentarily as the pain assaulted me. But it wasn't unbearable. My head felt clear, like the bright burst of pain wiped away a smidgen of that fog.

I looked down at my arm to see the damage. I was surprised, and even slightly disappointed, that the cut, high up near the crease of my elbow, was barely even bleeding. All that pain, and just a scratch was what I had to show for it. Not good enough for me. It needed to be deeper. I looked at it curiously, wondering how many cuts I could fit on my arm from elbow to wrist.

I gripped the knife harder and dragged it over my skin, past the first, crossing them. I forced my hand to pull steadily, slower than before, and I succeeded in getting a deeper cut. This one bled more too. Bright red fluid dripped down my arm in long rivulets. The pain stung, but it almost felt good. I had a grim satisfaction from the bright, clear pain that accompanied the liquid seeping from my arm. It wiped away all the other feelings, replacing them. For that moment I didn't have to think about anything else.

I closed my eyes, letting my arm do its own work. Again and again and again, each slice was marked by a fresh wave of pain. I slowly, without opening my eyes, moved my hand farther and farther, nearing my wrist.

Finally, when my arm felt like a cat had used it as a scratching post, I stopped. That was when the full force of what I had just done hit me. I felt disgusted, and I was scared to open my eyes. I could feel the cuts, deep long trenches in my skin, and the blood that was rushing to the surface. I breathed shallowly, the smell of blood finally registered in my mind.

I managed to open my eyes. As soon as I did, my vision was flooded in red. My arm was covered in it, the whole limb looked like it had been dipped in a bucket of bright red paint. Blood was pooled on my table, and splattered in small drops on the floor. Anyone who walked in right then would've thought I'd committed a murder. I managed to stand up, carrying myself to the sink. The water hurt almost as bad as the initial cuts as I washed the blood away, and I was reminded what had kept me cutting at all. The pain was like a blanket, pushing away doubts and other worries until they seemed insignificant in light of this new pain. I just sat there, letting the water rinse away the blood, my blood.

Inside of me I felt an alien sense of satisfaction. It felt like it wasn't mine.

I bandaged my arm. Cleaned the mess. Put the knife back in its drawer with careful hands. I went to school the next day. Some people asked about my arm, and I said it had been an accident. Yeah, some accident. The knife just had a mind of its own and did a number on my arm, as if that was an accident. I told myself that I would never cut myself again. I knew the emotional and physical trials it caused in people's lives. But when I got home after another day with Yugi and the rest my eyes strayed right to the top drawer, where all of my kitchen knives are.

My hands shook slightly, either in nervousness or excitement. I didn't want to cut myself again, but a small part of me was telling me that it would help me deal with the black outs. Another part was telling me that I deserved it for trying to escape to Yugi and his friends, that I had to be punished for trying to be part of their group. After all, Yugi didn't deserve me trying to hide within his group. It was selfish of me. Wrong.

I didn't even recognize myself.

Who was this child that mutilated himself in a vain attempt at hiding from his life? Who was this poor desperate child who couldn't go a day without wishing he were someone else?

I followed the same angry red marks that I'd given myself the day before. Going over them again and again until they bled. I had let them bleed, let the shimmering red liquid escape its veins, until I was shaking and my breath became shallow. Only then, when I felt like I was going to pass out otherwise, had I stopped.

Two sides of me were warring. A rational side, the one I knew, that was screaming logic at me. Telling me that this was stupid, a mistake. Telling me that I needed to stop, and never do it again. The other side was a foreign, unfamiliar side that I didn't recognize. It didn't feel like a part of me. It told me that this was my _escape_, and my punishment. It told me this was the only way for me to stay sane, but I think it was lying. I think it was making excuses, because deep down that side of me enjoyed the pain that I inflicted on myself, and it needed a rational excuse to keep going.

I wish that I had listened to that rational, familiar part of me. Especially because I know now that the other part isn't truly me… or so my rational side tells me. But it's too late because now I'm so deep in my rut that I have to follow those smooth red lines with a blade every day, and I don't think I could stop if I wanted to. I'm scared to try.

The thought of _not _escaping to my blade, a new sleek knife that I bought so I wouldn't need to resort to my kitchen knives, terrifies me. I rely on it. I rely on its solidity, a ritual in my life. Not having those few minutes of absolute clarity, of letting everything else go, of concentrating on just one thing, is something I don't know if I could handle anymore. Maybe if I had stopped in the beginning, but not now. Not when this has become my ritual, every day. Even my rational side agrees that I've become dependant on this pain, like a drug, that I escape into.

Everything has changed since the first day. I don't visit Yugi anymore. I can't for two reasons. First is my arm. The bandages are always red, soaking up the fresh blood, and I know that people will ask questions about it if I give them the chance (the reason I only wear long sleeves now). I don't want them to make me stop. Second is that if I go to Yugi's after school, then I'll be kept from my blade. I'll be kept from the pain, the clarity, the elation of being free from down-to-earth troubles.

Another change…the blackouts have become more frequent since I first began cutting. And in response, I've cut more, cut deeper, cut longer. I use the brisk crystal feeling the pain gives me to seek out my memories. I want to know what I did. A lot of times it works. The pain allows me to pull memories out of the dark blank spaces in my life. Places I've been, things I've done, people I've met… I never like what I find, but it's still better than not knowing.

I wonder if I'll ever be able to stop. Of course I tell myself that I could stop if I _really_ wanted to. And a part of me does want to. That other part loves the pain, though, the blood, the control. I feel like I'm warring with myself. But even when I'm not sure who's winning the battle, I have one thing, one single solid anchor in my life to return to. When nothing else stays the same, my rut keeps reality in focus.

After all, everyone needs something to rely on.

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I wrote another fic with sort of this same idea, but it's a totally different take on it. Should I post it, yay or nay?

~As far as the quote at the beginning. In this fic, Ryou has decided that the pain from cutting isn't as bad as the pain from having no power or control over his own life. He needs some sort of control. And that's how it ties in.~

PLEASE REVIEW!


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